


Scratch, Crack, Queen, Black

by blue_and_copper



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, I wasn't actually expecting there to be an existing Scratch/Snowman tag already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19407691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_and_copper/pseuds/blue_and_copper
Summary: Second-person Scratch/Snowman crack for funsies. Overdramatic. Humorous.





	Scratch, Crack, Queen, Black

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2015, updated 2017, posted 2019. Sequel 2021?

You raise your hand nervously, then let it fall away from the door to swing by your side as your breath whooshes out of your lungs. You wonder why he hasn’t opened the door already. Surely he knows you’re standing there. He must have expected it. Finally, you gather up the courage and knock, hard, three times on the door. Belatedly, you notice the elegant new door knocker, and panic momentarily as you think maybe you should have used that instead. Will he notice the finger marks? You then realize there’s some sort of commotion inside the apartment. You hear a crash, then a muffled, “Shit!” You wonder if this could possibly be your host.

A moment later, and the door is swinging open to reveal a… ah, man, dressed in an impeccably suave green and white tuxedo with an enormous cue ball for a head. You put on a smile, which you are sure seems forced, but really you are relieved. What if his head had been the size of an actual cue ball? You can hardly imagine worse. 

You have both been checking each other out for long enough to both become embarrassed, and your host stutters over his words as he asks you inside. You step gracefully over the threshold into the comfily upholstered apartment, glancing around at the tasteful, if rather green, décor. You take a seat in the parlor, and with a murmur of thanks accept the tea and biscuits your host offers you. Your heart is racing inside, though outwardly you express no sign of anxiety. At least, you hope so.

You engage yourself in small talk for some time, and he regains some of his confidence and composure. His hand is not shaking quite so hard as he offers more tea, and he pours some of his own so as not to seem standoffish. Suddenly your host leans forward and takes your hand off the arm of the chair. You raise one elegant eyebrow at him, and inquire, with a tilt of your head, as to what is the matter. 

“My darling,” he says haltingly, “I am so glad you could come and visit me, and I am indeed terribly enjoying my evening with you… the conversation alone is superfluously scintillating. But I find myself afraid, dear, of the thought of you leaving me. I must ask – will you marry me?”

You withdraw your hand slightly, but his hand clasps yours more tightly from where he has dropped to one knee on the floor. Your heart and head are racing as you try to think of what to do. Your host has continued in a lower voice, head tilted up imploringly toward your own. 

“Ever since I saw you on pesterdate, I knew that you were the one for me. And for whatever reason – fate, destiny, paradox-spatial law constant – I knew that I would do whatever it took to get you. So I ask again – will you marry me?”

You look down, past his cue ball, to your hands, locked together, his gloved thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. You feel sure he is close to tears, and decide to answer the poor fellow before he breaks down.

As you lean toward him, you draw his hands toward you, lifting the two of you to your feet. You embrace, leaving a scant few inches between your – well, not faces – heads, anyway – and suddenly – 

Spades Slick whacks both of you over the head with a crowbar. God dammit.


End file.
